


Everything Must Flow

by Hircyon, MoonLeNoirCrow



Series: Break From Austere (ACT 1) [2]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Frottage, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 07:12:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7304599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hircyon/pseuds/Hircyon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonLeNoirCrow/pseuds/MoonLeNoirCrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have a saying in northern Phindar: everything must flow downward. Osi Sobeck found himself at the bottom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Must Flow

**Author's Note:**

> Guest-written by Hircyon

They have a saying in northern Phindar, where the monsoon shakes the trees and scours the fields bare: everything must flow downward. Osi Sobeck found himself at the bottom.

The Phindian hunched naked in front of the small ‘fresher mirror and inspected the wound across his ribs. It was a fairly shallow slice about as long as his palm, but deeper where the blade had entered his side. Luckily, the sleemo hadn’t cut deep enough to cause major damage, but it was still an open wound. He tore through the cabinets until he found a medkit. It had been picked over, but there were enough bandages to cover the wound. No bacta, though. With a frustrated snarl, he tended to his injury. 

It wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it; he had mugged a man. But if that dodgy little Twi’lek had known what was good for him, they both could have walked away. In another time—another galaxy, maybe—it might be tragic, but Osi didn’t really have regrets. He had survived. Even better, he had prospered.

That was all that mattered.

He’d been living for a week in this rundown hotel room provided by a certain person he tried not to think about. It stung, taking handouts from a Jedi, but the Phindian knew how much pain a being could bear. He had inflicted enough of it. Between today’s earnings and the rest of the Jedi’s credits, he’d secured the room for two more weeks. He would have to hunt again if he wanted anything more. Osi looked wearily down at his bandaged ribs and sighed. He would just have to suffer through it the old-fashioned way. 

He realized he should have showered, but his adrenaline high had crashed. It was all the Phindian could do to make it to the small bed. As he crossed the room, he paused, head cocked, catching a scent. It came to him sometimes, in moments he didn’t expect. Something musky, faintly oily—human. Male. His lip curled and the muscles tensed down his back. A feeling twanged in his stomach. Hunger. Even that couldn’t save him from the overwhelming pull of exhaustion. Osi flopped onto the bed and fell into an unusually deep sleep.  


\-----

Time took on an unpleasant elasticity, sometimes moving too slow, and then disappearing all at once. The difference between sleeping and waking became minimal. Osi normally counted hours by the rolling tide of hunger, but now the thought of food made him gag, even though his stomach was empty and clenched like a fist. So he slept.

And even time ceased to matter.  


\-----

“Well, you certainly have made a mess of things, haven’t you?”

The words cut through the sweaty haze of sleep. Osi coughed, startled, and accidentally rolled onto his swollen side. HIs breath caught in this chest and he did everything he could to avoid choking.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, but his voice sounded embarrassingly weak. When he opened his eyes, the room seemed warmer, softly lit. Maybe it was just the raging fever. “I told you not to come back.”

“And, I told you I would,” Kenobi said gently. “Just in time, it seems.”

“Get out.”

“I’m not leaving until I at least know you’re all right.” 

Osi sat up on the edge of the mattress and suddenly the human was there, barely a foot away. Without armor, he noticed. He looked away, feeling foolish.

“Is this what you came back for? To humiliate me?”

Kenobi sighed and shook his head slowly. “Of course not. I had a feeling I should check in on you, and it seems I was right. Not that I was expecting you to fail,” he pointed out quickly. “I was worried.”

Osi glanced up. He wasn’t exactly comforted by those words, but they woke something in him. Like it was exactly what he wanted to hear. He touched his side gingerly and finally held the human’s gaze.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“You know why.” Kenobi didn’t come forward, as the Phindian wanted. A sour, bile-tinged growl welled in his throat. He shut his eyes in frustration.

“That’s a pathetic answer. Tell me. Now!”

“Sometimes,” the Jedi said softly, “you have to learn to settle.”

“What’s that supposed—“ The words died on his lips, because when he looked up, the room was dark. Quiet. Distinctly empty. Osi stood too fast and staggered. The walls felt tilted and foreign beneath his hands as he clawed his way to the ‘fresher and threw up in the sink. He braced himself against the wall, dry heaving and shaking like a half-drowned massiff whelp.

This was not a good sign.  


\-----

Hours melted away in a fugue of anxiety. Osi flushed and re-bandaged the wound, noting how the skin stretched taut and shiny around the scabbed gash. He touched the welt of scar tissue on his chest and tried to remind himself he had survived worse. Maybe he would’ve been better off dead, but he wasn’t. He was alive—changed, with an artificial lung to replace the one that Jedi brat destroyed, but alive.

Sleep came in bouts, like sun in the monsoon. Lurid dreams cast themselves over reality when he woke, until he couldn’t tell what was real. He ceased to care. Osi stretched out flat on the narrow bed. If he would suffer like this—starving, sweat-caked, and tortured, in a rundown hotel beneath millions of tons of ferrocrete—then he would finally embrace death.

“How very melodramatic. I wouldn’t expect that from someone so stoic.”

“Don’t,” he groaned and threw an arm over his eyes, refusing to look, but knowing it was pointless to argue. His mind conspired to torment him.

“Sobeck, you can’t keep fighting it.” The gentle teasing in Kenobi’s voice only enraged him.

“I’m not. You’re the one who’s fighting. You won’t admit it! You come here for what, to pity me? What do you really feel?” He was babbling, on the brink of a breakdown. He couldn’t help it. His self-restraint had melted hours ago under the fever. He was still hot, in more ways than one, but this surge of neediness disgusted him.

“Look at me, and you’ll know.”

“I don’t want to.”

“If that were so, I wouldn’t be here.”

Osi knew this was just the fevered projection of his lonely, frustrated mind. But at the same time, he knew desperation. He had fallen so far. The Phindian lowered his arm, sat up, and finally opened his eyes.

It was Kenobi before him—in hallucinatory detail, but even more alluring for his perfection; completely naked and flushed with arousal. Osi hesitated. He was fever-hot and shaking. He wanted to haul the man in by his slender hips, press his face to the soft skin, taste the salt. If he touched, he feared the scene would turn flat, a mental holoprojection. Another molten wave of arousal spread in his belly. He reached out and pulled the man toward him.

Osi nuzzled the human’s stomach, prickled with downy hair and goosebumps, muscles twitching slightly beneath him, and without preamble he took the man’s erection into his mouth. The skin was delicate and soft, though that didn’t surprise him. It was his own fantasy. Kenobi groaned above him. It wouldn’t be too difficult to take all of him into his mouth. Osi tensed, knuckles straining white. The salt of skin and sweat stung the back of his throat. Water-like, they blurred, and then he was on his back while fingertips mapped the peaks and valleys of his hips, circling the pronounced arches of bone. A deep groan welled in his throat.

His own erection rested heavy against his belly, its lubrication cooling his skin. He murmured in Phindian, too lost to translate, and Kenobi chuckled. The human pushed against his inner thighs and rearranged himself to fit against his partner. Osi hissed as their cocks slid smoothly together.

“Look at me,” Kenobi whispered, and Osi obeyed.

He was faintly aware of the warm touch on his cock, too light and teasing for his taste. When he tried to buck up, his whole body felt heavy, weighted by some unseeable force. He was dangerously hot. His head swam and he closed his eyes against the spinning sensation. Then, finally, the Jedi moved, stroking firmly against him. It centered him, brought him back to the the solidity of his body. He arched back.

Obi-Wan shifted, drawing himself closer to the Phindian, close enough that Osi could taste the sour tang of arousal and sweat on the air between them. Something flared in him. His heart pounded in the base of his throat. He needed more, and seeming to sense him, Obi-Wan glanced down. A flick of blue eyes, dark in the low, pinkish light, and a roll of his hips was all Osi needed.

The noise the Phindian made was pure feral lust. Obi-Wan leaned into him. Osi arched again, pushing against the human’s belly because he found the prickle of hair thoroughly alien and irresistible. The human gasped huskily and repositioned them.

“Help me,” Ob-Wan breathed. His voice was warm, but a hard edge of neediness crept in. Osi unclenched his hand from the edge of the mattress and held their erections together, stroking absentmindedly. The human’s weight held him still. Though Osi was more than strong enough to overpower the Jedi, he had no urge. The sensation was calming. It was almost like control.

A feral urge overcame him. He shifted beneath Kenobi, still stroking evenly. Osi arched his hips up and felt the man’s muscles twitch against the back of his hand, driving him to the brink of control. What he wanted, he didn’t dare ask. He movements became more frantic. An aching heat bloomed in his stomach, shot through with electric arcs of pleasure. He groaned, almost yelling, and at the last moment a primal possessiveness dimmed his good senses. He bucked, grinding their cocks together within his curled fingers, stroking with more pressure than speed. He wanted Kenobi inside him. The heat. The friction against the clench of his muscles. The slow, spreading heat of Kenobi’s release. A deep hum in his chest turned into a vicious moan.

“Mount me,” he groaned, lost at the brink of orgasm. “Obi-wan.” His voice trailed into a wordless yell and he came, panting, jerking his hips into his hand.

Osi paused.

The fantasy hadn’t faded but disappeared in a blip. Arousal still ached in his skin, but the room was dark. Silent. He radiated sick heat. Once again, he was utterly alone, but the ghost of his fevered confession remained. Semen cooled on his stomach.

He wondered feverishly if the Jedi would be disgusted by him. Or, would Kenobi realize he was partially responsible—that he had given Osi a taste of the unattainable and then left him to fight and bleed and starve and rut like an animal in the dirt? Would he even care at all? Something despairing came over him, sapping his strength, and he fell into a jungle-hot void of sleep.  


\-----

Osi Sobeck coughed himself awake. He pulled himself up, wheezing softly and feeling hungover. A thick, sour taste coated his mouth. Eyes barely open, he ran a hand down his body, idly checking for injury, and froze as his fingers ghosted over the dried semen on his belly. A storm of images overwhelmed him. Obi-Wan. Leaning over him, face flushed, the hollows of his collarbone pronounced against pale skin. Damp strands of hair sticking to the human’s forehead. The humid taste of sex on the air. Osi shuddered.

Of course, it hadn’t happened. The images were hyper-real, colored with feverish vibrance. But he could feel it in his skin. He could still remember the shape of the name on his lips. The Phindian stood too quickly and made his way shakily to the ‘fresher. If the human showed up again, then gods help them both. This hunger ran deeper than he’d dared to think. Deeper, maybe, than he could control.


End file.
